


Greet the Changing Tide

by angledust



Category: Papillon (2018)
Genre: Escape, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 07:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angledust/pseuds/angledust
Summary: Papillon and Dega run away together.





	Greet the Changing Tide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GloriousGoblinQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriousGoblinQueen/gifts).



Dega had to stop to hear those distant voices, even his soft footsteps echoed and drowned them out in this empty room. To his side bare metal beds crowded along each wall. Sunlight filtered through the small high windows from the courtyard outside and dust motes drifted in the still air. The hospital wing was deserted, and Dega wasn't sure why, only that he shouldn't be caught here alone. He knew instinctively where he had to go, he had to follow those voices down the stone tunnel. It was just one of those things that had to be done, like so many things since he arrived at the prison.

  
Halfway down corridor the walls started closing in and he realised what was missing. Papillon was gone, and not coming back. He was alone. But there was no time for fear; he could hear people coming towards him in the darkness ahead, so he ducked into the dark windowless room to his side.

  
Naked men stood under water, which poured from the ceiling with a steady patter. He stopped awkwardly in the doorway, but only for a second. No one had noticed him yet. Stepping inside, he tried to blend in with the walls as he pulled his clothes off. He had to fit in, showing fear was death, or worse. The water hit him with a shock, surprisingly cold. The men washing themselves were large, heavily muscled, and it was impossible to ignore the fact that he wasn't. Why was he here?

  
Those voices had reached the door. Men streamed in, a dozen or more, filling the room. Dega edged closer to the wall but not fast enough, bodies brushed up against him, surrounding him. He tried not to move, not to expose himself as weak, other. The murmur of voices was a roar over the drumbeat of rain hitting the floor. Next to him someone pushed forward and he looked up to see a stranger glance down at him with a half-recognised smile. Then there were hands on his hips, a muscled chest at his back, and he was shoved forward. He hit the wall hard, slick with slime under his palms. Bodies surged forward to take up the space around him, stuck to his, so close he had crane his neck up to breathe. Each individual body might as well be a wall, unmoveable, reminding Dega of his weakness. “Pap-” he tried to call out, but a hand closed over his mouth. He closed his eyes, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Dimly, he heard a familiar voice.

...

  
“Hey, it’s alright. Shh. It’s ok…” Papillon’s voice was a whisper, his breath warm on Dega’s cheek. Dega felt his warmth at his front, the empty space at his back, and Papillon’s arms around him, holding, but not constricting. He stilled, his heart starting to slow. Something brushed through the grass behind him and he looked around wildly, trying to see through the curtain of leaves trailing to the forest floor behind him. “Just an animal trying to get out of the rain.” Papillon said.

  
Dega rested his head against Papillon’s chest. Not very dignified, but well, they didn’t have much room. They had managed to find possibly the only dry spot in the bush, perched precariously on a ledge above a fork in the river and sheltered by the leaves of several huge trees. It was still raining, Dega could hear the thudding drops hit water. Papillon had welcomed it last night, Dega had watched with exhausted eyes as he turned his face to the sky and smiled as the heavens opened. It would confuse the dogs tracking their scent, and slow down the men after them, buy them some time, he had said.  
“You were dreaming. About the guard earlier?”

  
“No, the prisoners.” Dega’s voice sounded croaky even to him.

  
“Which one?” There was an anger in Papillon’s voice which Dega had heard before.

  
“Do you remember, that night just after we arrived. In the cell, off the hospital wing-"

  
Papillon was silent for a moment. They had never discussed what happened at the time. Up until then Dega had believed their relationship was just a financial one, and likely to remain that way. Maybe that was the moment Dega had realised that was impossible, for him at least.

  
“Thank you.”

  
“Of course- “ Papillon started, and then shook his head, so close that Dega felt stubble brush his cheek, “What were you doing there anyway?”

  
“On the ship, even after seeing that man killed, I still thought this would be a simple thing. I would be heading home in weeks and until then all I had to do was keep my head down. Then we get here and weeks go by and I realised, you would probably be out before me, even if you died in the attempt. I needed to forge some connections.”

  
“Oh, that’s what you were trying to do.”

  
It had seemed straightforward enough. The inmates working in the hospital block were the most well connected. He would pay them to send letters out to some of his more unsavoury acquaintances, letters the guards couldn’t be allowed to see, and bring the replies, hopefully filled with enough gold to get him through the longer stay he now anticipated, back to him. It was that night he realised that the inmates might have other reasons to be interested in him besides money. And when Papillon had turned up and fought off half a dozen attackers, he wondered if it might be personal for him too.

  
“Why did you try to kiss me that night?”

  
Dega winced. They had never talked about that either. “I suppose I didn’t know you, I thought you might want-"

  
“A reward? Even if I wanted too, that’s not who I am. I don’t pay – or take payment – for that.” Had he hesitated on the ‘even if I wanted to’? and the way he said ‘that’ made it sound less profane and more sacred.

  
“I should have just stuck with you from the start.” It made sense, the first person in his life he should have trusted, so of course he hadn’t.

  
“You could go back now, say I forced you along. They’d buy it. I attacked the guard, not you. You still have a better chance of getting home from inside than out here.”

  
Dega wiped a hand over his face. He had lost his glasses in the escape. The dogs could be feet away and with the heavy drumbeat of the water he wouldn’t hear them until it was too late. But at his side Papillon was calm, solid, and for the first time since their escape he felt some of that seeping into him. How long had it been? A day and a night? “I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. But you could go on without me, if you want?”

  
“I don’t make mistakes.” Papillon grinned.

  
Looking at Papillon, Dega realised some mistakes were worth making, again and again.

  
He leaned in for the kiss, Papillon was still for a moment before his lips met his. Dega didn’t feel uncertain in the beat before they kissed, it was something that had been heading towards the both of them for a long time. The kiss was full, wet, desperate. It seemed ridiculous to question what they were doing, out here, alone, this raw and this close to death.

  
Papillon pulled him closer, strong arms gripping him close like they wanted to pull him inside. Dega put his hand on Papillon’s heart and felt the speeding drumbeat echo his own. He pressed his chest to Papillon’s to feel him closer and pressed his lips to his to feel the rush of warmth over his whole body. And Papillon must feel felt it too, though in Papillon’s case it might be more an effect of the exhilaration at the freedom. But this was how he chose to channel it, his natural reaction, to do this with him. The energy seemed to flow from Papillon into him, this rush of joy at the painful, maybe brief, life they had hard won.

 

Dega felt a brush of skin on his dick, Papillon’s stomach and hip where the prison issued trousers had torn. He forced his hand down to create some space between them and pull the fabric lower. Dega’s hand brushed Papillon’s cock. He felt it harden against his stomach. He moved up to bring them both in line, cocks brushing each other only one layer of material between. For the first time Dega hesitated, his hand trembled between. If there was a time when Papillon might pull away this was it. He was painfully still in the moment.

  
Papillon did pull away a little, but he kissed harder, and Dega felt him take his hand, slip their hands down together, pulling the pants out the way and his own cock free to meet Papillon’s. Papillon opened Dega’s hand, linking their fingers and fitted his palm around their cocks, placing his own hand over, holding it all in place.

  
Hand to hand, mouth on mouth, cock on cock, the jagged edges of the world flattened around him and all his focus streamed in on that one brilliant sensation. His hips jerked once and then he came. Papillon pushed him through the orgasm, keeping his grip tight, and then came too, their cum mingling on the ground between them.

  
Dega lay gasping in the aftermath, and Papillon stood, stepping over him. Dega turned to see him pull apart the curtain of leaves.

  
“Do you hear that?”

  
Dega froze.

  
“The rain’s stopped. This is our chance.” Papillon turned back to him, face alight with hope. “The boat's still paid for. If the guards haven’t got there first, there’s still a chance. Come on, we need to go now, they’ll be out searching again. We can follow the stream to the river.”

 

* * *

  
There were no guards at the little river landing, but there were plenty of others. The smuggler – Dega had never learned his name – along with several of his friends, or employees, stood facing them. In the shack that served as a boat store, and maybe a home for all he knew, several women watched from the doorway.

  
The smuggler had a rifle aimed at him. His armed comrades hadn’t bothered, weapons held lazily or holstered. “Why should I help you,” he asked, “when the warden will give me double for turning you in?”

  
It was a good question, and one Dega didn’t immediately have an answer to besides delving into honour and reputation, which the apparently not smuggler, not of people at least, didn’t seem too concerned about. He stepped forward nevertheless. “Here.” He held out his hand “Take it. This is the last of the gold I have on me.”

  
The man with the boat did take it, looking a little surprised. Papillon, at Dega’s side, looked surprised too. Giving away the last of their gold was not a wise thing to do, but they were out of options. Dega had watched Papillon as they he spoke with the smuggler, watched his face change as he realised the man would betray them. There was still a part of Papillon that saw people and expected the best, and Dega couldn’t let that be extinguished.

  
The smuggler took a look at the gold. One of his followers stepped forward to see too, but he shoed them away with a look and a curse. “This is twice as much as your friend paid true. But now I have it.” He laughed, but more disbelievingly at Dega’s naivety. He was still wrong-footed, and Dega took his chance.

  
“That was the last of my money here, and you’re welcome to it. You know why? Because it’s nothing. You know who I am, everyone here does. I’m Louis Dega, Paris’ most successful counterfeiter. They say I have millions hidden away, and they’re right. You think I only made what the investigation found? I worked this racket for three years.”

  
“Then why are you still here?”

  
“I can’t move it while I'm here. Would you trust any of your men with the location of millions? If I can get to Paris I can set you up for life. You’ll never have to work another day.” The last part he addressed behind the smuggler, at their audience. The men milling around their employer looked unimpressed, but the women by the shack didn’t have to fake anything right now, and they were listening. “Or do you want to live out your lives in some fetid swamp?

  
“I give you this boat I never see you again. I need payment now. You’re never coming back here.”

  
Dega faltered, he didn’t have an answer for that. Papillon stepped forward. “Easy, you come with us.”

  
The smuggler laughed again, and he didn’t sound confused this time. “Why would I want to go with you? I make a good living here, in this fetid swamp. Why would I risk my life to drink with Paris' elite? Even if you escape the guards, you’ll never survive the sea in this boat. And you’ll never have the chance. Pierre, ride for the prison."

  
“We can make it.” Papillon said, but he was drowned out by sudden voices. Not all of the smuggler’s men sounded happy with his decision.

  
“Do you?” Dega called after the one guy leaving, “Do you make a good living here? You prefer the swamp to Paris, or London or New York or wherever your home is? It’s your choice.” He did have their attention, now, although the smuggler mostly looked amused. He wasn’t facing his employees though, and couldn’t see the looks on their faces. “This man here,” he pointed to Papillon, “Is loyal to me, has fought for me, is willing to cross seas to almost certain death, as your employer says, for what I can give him. For what I could give you. What has your employer done to inspire such loyalty that you would end your days here with him, and give up your futures for this man?”

 

* * *

  
Dega lay back on the sun-warmed boards of the boat and watched fluffy white clouds drift past. The river took them steadily towards the sea. No need to steer, the boat drifted. Once they hit the coast and were out at sea they would need to worry about wind, and which city to head for, but for the moment the stillness seemed apt, a break in the frenzy of the last few days.

  
“Do you miss France?” Papillon asked, from the tiller.

  
Dega had to think about it. He had spent so long longing to be back there. But that was more longing for freedom. “No, not really. Not my family, not my friends, not the person I was. But I suppose anywhere is better than here.” Papillon looked unconvinced. “Don’t you miss it? What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get back?” He almost asked just ‘what are you going to do when you get back’ but he didn’t want to go too far ahead and hear Papillon plan a life without him.

“I miss drinking decent whisky in a dark bar, listening to good jazz while wearing clean clothes. That sounds pretty good right now. I miss some things. But south down the coast past the swamps is paradise, or so I’ve heard.”

  
“I thought you wanted to go back, to clear your name.” Dega hesitated. “And for a girl?”

  
“Maybe I’ve changed too much.”

  
“Can we just turn around?” Dega sat up in the hull and watched Papillon, who stared straight ahead at the river.

  
“Why not. If you don’t like who you were, don’t go back to it. The best thing I’m heading back to is a drink. Maybe out here we can both find something better.”

  
“I’ll have nothing.”

  
“We’ll have to start again. Make new names, become new people.” Papillon still wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

  
Dega almost took the time to point out the million difficulties they would face doing that, but Papillon had the same look on his face as when he had talked about escape. He must want this new life almost as badly as Dega wanted it for the both of them, and Papillon had a habit of making the impossible reality. “Together?”

 

Papillon grinned, "Since I'm willing to face certain death for what you can give me, I'd say we should stay together."

 


End file.
